


Doing Our Best

by poselikeateam



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Parents, Accidental Voyeurism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biphobia, Bisexual Disaster Jaskier | Dandelion, Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Communication, Confessions, Disaster Jaskier | Dandelion, Drunken Confessions, Emotionally Repressed, Family Issues, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Says "Hmm", Getting Together, Healthy Relationships, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Internalized Homophobia, Jaskier | Dandelion is Bad at Communicating, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Repression, Sexual Repression, Slurs, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, you don't need to forgive your abusers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24332053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: Jaskier has always known this simple truth: men can't love other men. It doesn't make his feelings for Geralt any easier, but he can manage -- until he finds out that Geralt is not aware of this truth. It haunts him to know that Geralt of Rivia enjoys the company of men, and he doesn't want to consider what it means for his own feelings, until he has to. They can make it work.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 15
Kudos: 537





	Doing Our Best

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes — first, I tried to write something more serious than I'm used to. I don't know if I like it as much but hey, it's here. I always see Geralt being emotionally repressed and having internalised homophobia, etc. etc., and it's like... he's been around long enough that he probably knows better? He wasn't raised with human social norms and humans don't really look kindly on him anyway so why should he care? Jaskier, on the other hand, comes from nobility, and is maybe a little too young to know that his parents can be wrong.
> 
> You don't have to forgive your abusers no matter what, even if they're dying, even if they're really sorry. Only forgive them if it feels right for you and don't let anyone make you feel pressured to do so.
> 
> I'm queer, and I was talking to my therapist, and I jokingly said, "Why do I still talk to my parents?" and he said, "If I'm being honest, I wonder that about you from time to time." Also, I googled old-timey epithets, but "pole puffer" was my dad's go-to while I was growing up so shout out to dad, I guess? 
> 
> This IS pure fiction, btw — not to say it doesn’t happen but it isn’t based on my own experiences or anything. My parents never hit me or anything, and like Geralt in this fic I never even thought to repress my bisexuality, I just felt like it was a story that needed written so I did. 
> 
> Anyway like everything I write there's a happy ending and also Jaskier is immortal and y'all are gonna have to live with that. Cheers!

Let no man say that Jaskier is any less of a man than they are.

Oh, he knows how it seems; he likes his finery and his oils, and the peasants tend to have a certain viewpoint about “those Oxenfurt boys”, but any man who thinks him effeminate, well, he’s probably ploughed their wife better than they have. 

He knows that he has a sort of reputation for being effeminate and it doesn’t bother him, except, well, it _does_. It’s all very complicated, see — he has refused to be ashamed of who he is and what he likes. His style might not be the most masculine, sure, but the _ladies_ love it. For fuck’s sake he named himself after a _flower_ just to drive home the point that it isn’t an insult no matter what his father says.

Privately, he will admit that he has a bit of a complex. His father had always been of a certain opinion about men who enjoy the company of other men, and at even the slightest hint that his son was one of them, well, Jaskier was made to suffer. He’s had all manner of epithets spewed at him: fairy, poof, queer, pillow-biter, pansy, faggot, poncy, bent, bummer, fruit, cocksucker — even, on one memorable occasion when his father was exceptionally drunk and incensed, _pole puffer_. And for the longest time he had really _tried_ to be the son that his father wanted, the son he thought his father _deserved_ , but he just _couldn’t_. It wasn’t _him_. He was meant to be colourful, flamboyant, expressive; if you ask his father, he would probably say men should only have four emotions: hungry, horny, angry, and disappointed.

Really, he doesn’t even think that’s an exaggeration, and while Jaskier is aware that at least two of those aren’t even proper emotions, well, he’s not so sure that his father knows that. 

It all came to a head when he announced that he was going to be pursuing his education at the Bard’s College in Oxenfurt. He’s not an idiot, he knew how his father would react — that is to say, violently. He once (much later, of course) saw a Rotfiend explode after Geralt stuck his sword in it, and, well, right before the big _boom_ it looked a lot like his father had in that moment. He knew exactly what he was doing, what bridges he was burning, but he was _done_ being treated the way he had been. He was done doing his best at being someone else, only for it to never be good enough. He was done with the name-calling, the beatings, the constant belittling. 

If you ask him what it is to grow up and be a real man, well, he’d insist that it’s being your _own_ man. So that was exactly what he did: he took whatever he could carry on his back, stashed it outside before the big, final confrontation, and scooped it all up as he ran from his father’s halls for the last time. He worked his arse off to get through his education, and he worked his arse off after, and let no one say that he doesn’t deserve every scrap of recognition he’s gotten.

He deserves to be himself, to dress however he wants and smell however he wants and talk and walk and sing and _be_ however he wants to and damn it, no one will _ever_ take that from him.

Still.

The whole thing has given him a sort of complex, whether he likes it or not, whether he wants to admit it or not. He’ll admit that it still bothers him when people make certain assumptions about him based on his style and mannerisms. He does like women, he _does_ , and he found out pretty quickly that just insisting that fact made people think it was _less_ true the more he did it. So, he started to make a name for himself in _other_ ways. 

Specifically, bedding a frankly _scandalous_ range of women.

It took a little while but it ended up getting people off his arse in Oxenfurt, and it felt _nice_ so of course he would continue. In his youth, he was a little more discerning when it came to his partners; that is to say, there was no cuckolding, no angry men demanding his head (or his _head_ ) after he was caught in bed with a lovely lady. 

As with most other things in his life, a lot changed after he met one Geralt of Rivia.

He has never really been one for repression; a bard should feel freely, and feel free to feel freely. However, he has always had trouble admitting to himself that he has an equal interest in men and women. It makes him feel dirty, ashamed, in a way that nothing else really ever has. It’s _painful_. Of course, it was so much easier to push down deep inside of him when he was younger, but, well, _Geralt_. 

That is to say, he starts getting a little paranoid when he notices that not only are most of his ballads about the White Wolf, but the way he talks and sings about the man, it feels like the whole Continent knows his secret. He’s torn between two very painful thoughts: it feels like he is in love with Geralt, a _man_ , but he knows that can’t be possible. Love between men isn’t real, it’s a perversion of actual love. It’s a twisted sort of lust and it’s eating him up inside. 

He tries so hard to deny his feelings, and for the first time he doesn’t just feel like he has to prove himself to others, but to _himself_. So he starts getting sloppy, bedding any women that look his way without any real thought as to the possible repercussions of their tryst. He and Geralt are the best of friends and this fucked up thing inside him won’t ruin that as long as he has anything to say about it.

It doesn’t keep him from getting jealous, a roaring beast in his chest rearing its ugly head whenever Geralt takes someone to bed that isn’t a woman of the night. The thing is, with prostitutes, it’s just an exchange, coin for tension release. It’s no more involved than going to the shops. But when he sees Geralt with the rare, brave townswoman who wants to see that famed witcher stamina for herself, or — Gods, fuck, with _Yennefer_ — he sees _red_. He knows that it’s something he has to keep to himself. He has no claim to Geralt, and he _shouldn’t_ , but he can’t help it. 

It also doesn’t make it easier the way Yennefer is always so willing to step up to the plate and trade verbal blows with him, a more vicious battle each time they meet. He tries not to hate her but she makes it so bloody _easy_ that it ends up circling back around, eventually, to respect, and then they have this tenuous friendship that’s still mostly jabs and barbs but it’s _easier_. 

A lot happens, but in the end he and Geralt are friends and they are walking the Path together like they have been for, well, ages. He can’t see any other life for himself, at least not one that he can be happy with. And he _is_ happy. Being by Geralt’s side, singing his praises, making sure the whole bloody Continent knows how brave and noble and heroic he is— 

He really needs to stop feeling like this. It isn’t right, and it isn’t fair to Geralt. It almost feels like he’s taking advantage of him. What would he say if he knew the way Jaskier thinks of him, the way that thoughts of him come, unbidden, when he takes himself in hand? It makes him feel sick, so he can’t imagine how _Geralt_ would feel about it. 

And fuck, honestly, he’s a little jealous. Geralt has probably never had to convince anyone of his masculinity. Geralt is, well, not quite a _normal_ man, but not some kind of _deviant_. He is, at least in this case, no different from any other regular man who enjoys the company of the fairer sex only, who doesn’t wonder what it would be like to have sword-callused palms on his bare skin. 

At least, that’s what he _thought_. A man like Geralt, who would ever think he’d be like _that_? Besides, Jaskier has seen him bed women (not on purpose, he’s not that depraved, but the image of Geralt in the throes of passion will haunt him to the end of days). 

His perception of the world is completely shattered one night, and no, he does not think that is dramatic. He and Geralt have stopped in an inn, as they so often do, and Jaskier is performing like he normally does, but something is different tonight. The White Wolf has been a bit, well, irritable lately, so he assumes that he needs to let off some steam, so it wouldn’t be ludicrous to see him allowing someone to chat him up. He knows that a slab of muscle like Geralt is a _lot_ of people’s type, even if he feels a twist of guilt whenever that little voice that sounds too much like his father reminds him that he’s one of those people. 

Geralt doesn’t really do flirting, or chat-up lines, or anything like that. He lets people talk to him and he grunts back if he’s interested and ignores them if he isn’t. It doesn’t do a lot in terms of making people see him as a person and not an animal, but some people do _enjoy_ the thought of being taken by an animal. Jaskier, of course, knows that Geralt is different. He is gentle and kind, and he would be such an attentive lover— 

Hm. Regardless, he wouldn’t be surprised to see Geralt allowing someone to flirt with him, but when he glances over in his best friend’s direction, he is so shocked that he misses the next note. Quickly, he brushes it off and continues performing, but he’s shocked because there is a _man_ flirting with Geralt of Rivia. And okay, sure, that happens sometimes, but Geralt seems to be _allowing_ it. 

Jaskier is sure that he’s just projecting, or something. The man has put a hand on Geralt’s arm, and Geralt hasn’t brushed it off, but it doesn’t really have to mean anything. He had only looked for a second, after all; he could have missed Geralt refusing this man’s advances. Above all, his performance is what is important right now, and he knows that paying attention to Geralt in this moment would just distract him, so he forces himself to pay attention to what he is doing and push it from his mind until he’s done. 

When he finally finishes — and it never feels as long as it has this time — he makes his way to the corner where Geralt was brooding as always, but it is very obviously witcher-less. The man is also missing, but that doesn’t have to mean anything — most likely, Geralt got tired, or found some comely lass to take to bed, or decided to just take himself in hand before Jaskier finished so he could bring himself off in private, and the man just left. 

He laughs at himself a little for how he’d acted before, and makes his way up to their room. He is tired, after all, and there’s nothing really keeping him down here now that his performance has finished. 

Only, when he gets to their room, he hears a sort of thump and a muffled curse, and he’s kind of worried. He knows Geralt can take care of himself, but he also knows that Geralt tries to take care of himself when it’s a stupid idea. Was he injured recently and just didn’t say anything? Jaskier bites his lip in concern and unlocks the door (because of course Geralt _always_ locks the door like he’ll be murdered if he doesn’t, the silly, paranoid man). 

The first thing he sees is that man from before, only he’s naked from the waist down and Geralt is on his knees and—

Jaskier slams the door.

His face must be as red as his doublet, fuck. What the fuck? What the fuck was that? He just walked in on Geralt with some strange man’s prick halfway down his throat and he’s going to be _sick_ for so many reasons that he can’t even parse properly right now so he does the next best thing and runs outside. 

The cool air helps him at least a little, and he breathes through his nose, willing himself to calm down. He’s disgusted with himself, of course, for the way it made him _feel_ — wanting and jealous and aroused and angry — but he’s also confused. What did he just walk in on? 

He knows what a blowjob is, obviously; he’s gotten plenty, but he’d never thought he’d see Geralt giving one. Fuck. His head is spinning and bile is rising up in his throat and he _really_ needs to calm down and _think_. 

It’s just, it’s surprising, shocking. He had never thought Geralt the type, but he supposes that was pretty stupid of him — after all, how much has he always hated people judging his sexuality based on the way he looks and acts, and he’s been doing it to Geralt all this time? Still, it’s wrong, isn’t it? 

This angry, jealous feeling coiling in his gut like a snake about to strike isn’t helping him think in the slightest. How is he supposed to act when he goes back in there? Surely Geralt isn’t going to want anything to do with him now that he knows that he’s a— that he likes—

Should he pretend he didn’t see anything? Can he even trust himself to do that? Will this traitorous, fucked up thing inside him allow it? Fuck, that man had a build similar to his own, from what little he could see, and that is going to torture him _forever_. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits outside on the dirty ground in front of the inn, head between his knees as he tries to reconcile what he’s always been told with what he’s just seen. There’s this part of him that starts to think that maybe, if Geralt does it, it can’t be that bad? His witcher is good and kind and would never do something if he knew it was wrong, not as long as he had another option. 

Honestly, this is a lot for him to work through all at once, and by time the panic subsides he’s so fucking _tired_ that he just… stops. He makes his way back up to their room and by time he opens the door again, Geralt is alone and asleep, and he heaves a little sigh of relief before crawling into his own bed and trying to get a good night’s rest.

**

Neither of them brings it up the next day. Geralt doesn’t seem upset with him, or even embarrassed, thank the Gods, and he isn’t stupid enough to bring it up when he doesn’t even know what the fuck he would say if he did. He never quite forgets about it, but he is eventually able to put it out of his mind, more or less, and life goes on.

That is, until maybe a month later.

Jaskier is sneaking out to the stables to give Roach an apple or two because the old girl absolutely deserves to be pampered, and he enjoys her company. Really, he sees why Geralt was able to survive with just her company for so long — she is a _great_ listener. 

Chuckling fondly, he turns the corner—

And there is Geralt, leaning against the wall behind the stables, which wouldn’t be the weirdest thing except for the _stableboy_ who is currently _sucking his dick_. 

Jaskier once again turns bright red and sprints in the other direction, but this time there’s no door for him to slam. Fuck, it’s the middle of the day! At least Geralt isn’t the one on his knees this time, but is this really much better? He doesn’t need more cannon fodder for his fucked-up fantasies, doesn’t need to imagine what it would be like if it was _his_ hair that Geralt’s fingers were twisted through, _his_ mouth giving him pleasure—

He’s going to be _sick_.

This time, since Geralt is not using their room, he does. For once, he locks the door. He doesn’t know how long the other man is going to be but he just, he _really_ needs some fucking space. He can understand one time, everyone makes mistakes, but now it’s almost becoming a habit and he really cannot handle that for _several_ reasons. 

Still, he’s sure that it won’t happen again. Maybe Geralt just wanted to know what it felt like both ways, and now that his curiosity’s satisfied he won’t have to do it again. They’ve both been bedding women — used the same brothels — so it’s not like Geralt has any reason to do this. He shouldn’t be this _desperate_ but maybe he’s just curious or bored. For his own sake, Jaskier really hopes that this is the end of it.

**

It isn’t. 

He and the witcher are together more often than not, so Jaskier really should have prepared himself for the possibility that he would keep seeing Geralt in compromising situations, but frankly he hadn’t _wanted_ to. It’s not like it’s constant, but now Jaskier is hyper aware where before he was blissfully _un_ aware. Now, he’s rethinking a lot of things and is sort of horrified to realise that this isn’t a new thing. Geralt has followed or been followed by men before, about as regularly as women. Jaskier always assumed there was some machismo thing happening and had ignored it. 

What a fool he was. Now he knows that Geralt enjoys the company of other men and has this whole time and for some reason isn’t even ashamed of it and he still has no idea what to do with that. It doesn’t make the jealous feeling go away — if anything, it makes it far, far worse. Now the fucked-up part of him is acting like this is an _option_ , like _he_ is an option. All the work he’s done over the years pushing this down is slipping through his fingers like water and he hates it. He catches himself thinking about it more than ever — what it would be like to try it, just once, just to see. Obviously, he knows he shouldn’t, _can’t_ , but he still can’t stop thinking about it. 

It’s almost half a year after the first time he saw it. He hasn’t been counting or anything, but he notices the seasons changing and realises that for that bloody long now he has been aware that Geralt of Rivia enjoys the company of men. 

The thought isn’t a comforting one. It’s strange and painful and confusing and he hates it, he hates that he ever unlocked that stupid door in the first place. That night, once again, they are in an inn. This time, he is not performing. No, he is drinking, and _heavily_. Once he started, he just didn’t want to stop, wanted all of this to _go away_ so he could go back to trying to be _normal_ without this shit complicating it all. 

The room is hazy and he doesn’t really know how but suddenly he is draped over Geralt’s shoulder like he’s made of cloth, and that does something to him, makes something hot coil in his gut and he _whines_ because this isn’t _fair_.

“What isn’t fair?” Geralt asks, “That you’re such a lightweight?”

“Don’t tease me,” he slurs, flailing a little.

“Don’t make it so easy,” is the reply.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Jaskier says, “but I’m jealous.”

“What, carry you, or outdrink you? Because I’m pretty sure the answer to both of those is ‘witcher’.” Geralt’s voice is definitely amused, and Jaskier whines again as he’s deposited on the bed. When did they get to their room? No matter.

“Men,” he answers, putting a pillow over his face.

“I don’t follow.”

“Ploughing men!” Jaskier yells through the pillow.

“With… oil?”

Jaskier screams. 

“You need to get some sleep,” Geralt says. 

“I can’t.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

Jaskier sits up suddenly, regrets it immediately. “Dramatic!”

“Please get some sleep,” Geralt says softly, pressing his shoulder gently towards the bed. And well, he _is_ tired, so with a huff, he lets himself drift off.

**

He has had a _terrible_ influence on his witcher. Perhaps decades ago he would have been _thrilled_ if you’d told him that one day he would wake up and Geralt would start a conversation with him, but now that it’s happened, he’s not so pleased.

“You were saying a lot of nonsense last night,” Geralt says, and he grumbles in return because it’s _too early_ and he is hungover as fuck. Geralt, the dear, has brought him breakfast at least so once that’s in him he thinks he’ll be up for this conversation, and he says as much. The witcher snorts like this is _funny_ and maybe it would be if he wasn’t the one _suffering_ right now.

After breakfast, Jaskier is feeling a lot better. “What kind of nonsense was I saying?” he asks, suddenly far more cheerful than he was when he woke up.

“Something about not knowing how to plough men?”

He isn’t feeling so great anymore.

In fact, he chokes on nothing, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, _what_?” Even as he asks, he starts to remember, and it is a horrifying experience, being faced with what he’d said. “I’m not— I don’t want the _mechanics_ , Geralt!”

Geralt hums. “Just seemed weird.”

Now Jaskier is kind of angry. He throws his hands up and all but shouts, “What’s _weird_ is bedding _other men_!”

The witcher’s brow furrows. “What’s weird about that?”

Jaskier makes a wounded noise. There is no way he is ever going to be prepared for this conversation. How can someone not know that it’s wrong? “It’s wrong!” That’s a good start. 

“I don’t follow.”

“Men aren’t supposed to sleep with each other, Geralt.”

“Says who?”

He frowns. “I… everyone!”

“Not me.”

“My father—” He swallows, suddenly feeling like there is something stuck in his throat, but it doesn’t help. “My father always said that it was… sick.”

“Your father sounds like an asshole.”

A shocked laugh escapes the bard. “Well, he was. Is. I don’t know if he’s still alive, and I don’t really care to, but if he even _thought_ I might have an interest in men he would beat it out of me — or, well, he would try to.” He clenches his fists in his lap. “I tried so _hard_ to be normal, and you— you’re making it really fucking difficult.”

He looks at Geralt who is absolutely _furious_ , judging by his murderous expression. “If he is still alive, I’ll be more than happy to fix that,” Geralt rumbles, and for once he actually looks _dangerous_ , in the way other people like to think he is.

“He was just trying to… to make sure I didn’t turn out… wrong,” Jaskier says, and he really hates that he’s crying because he thought he was over this by now.

For all his thunderous rage, Geralt’s hand is surprisingly, achingly gentle when it comes to rest on Jaskier’s shoulder. “He was an asshole,” Geralt says again. “An asshole who didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. There’s nothing wrong with liking other men. There _is_ something wrong with beating your son for no good reason.”

“I don’t want to be a-a faggot.”

“You’re _not_. You’re Jaskier.”

Jaskier laughs. He shouldn’t be as comforted by that as he is but for some reason, hearing this from Geralt, it’s what he needed. “Can I ask you something?” he asks quietly.

“Go ahead.”

He hesitates. “When did you… I mean, how did you know? Who told you that you could… like men?”

Geralt laughs, but the sound isn’t unkind. “Do you really think that a bunch of teenage boys growing up together in an isolated keep are going to stop at _fighting_ each other?” he asks. 

“But didn’t you know— I mean, didn’t anyone tell you it was wrong?”

“Who would? It was just us and old Vesemir, and he grew up in Kaer Morhen the same as we did,” Geralt answers with a shrug. They’re both quiet as Jaskier processes this. “You only think it’s wrong because you were told it’s wrong. Someone saying it doesn’t make it so, or we would start seeing the creatures in your songs.”

Jaskier laughs again. “You really know how to comfort someone,” he teases. “I’m impressed.”

Geralt looks away in the way he does when he’s embarrassed. The man can’t blush because of his slowed heart rate, but Jaskier has long since been able to tell when he _would_ be blushing if he could, and it seems this is one of those times. He takes a deep breath and decides that he can’t make this any more embarrassing for either of them, and it’s now or never, so he asks.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“Can I ask you something else?” Geralt nods, and he says, “Can… can two men love each other? I mean, can it be _real_?” 

The witcher frowns at him again, soft. “Of course.”

“Oh.” He bites his lip. “Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah.”

Jaskier allows himself half of a pause to steel himself before he says, “All this time, I’ve been trying _very_ hard not to love you.” 

There is a sword-callused hand on his cheek, and he turns to look into golden eyes that remind him of the autumn sun. “There are better men to love,” Geralt says carefully, and Jaskier frowns at him.

“Perhaps,” he says, “but I don’t love any of them.”

Geralt lets out a breath, a half-sigh. It looks like he’s holding himself back. Jaskier places his hand over the one on his cheek. “I can’t promise that I’ll… I can’t just relearn everything all at once,” Jaskier warns him. “But I’ve spent so long trying not to love you, and now that I know I _can_... I’d like to try.” He leans forward, slowly, until he can feel Geralt’s breath on his own lips. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers.

“I don’t think I can,” Geralt answers.

So Jaskier kisses him.

It’s different from kissing a woman. Geralt’s stubble rubs against his face but it’s not anywhere near the realm of unpleasant. His lips aren’t as soft, or plump, but they’re so warm and nice. It’s the most chaste kiss he has shared with someone in years, but he’s never felt like this from another kiss before.

He pulls back, and half-lidded blue eyes look into similarly dazed gold. “That was…” He swallows. “I definitely see the appeal.

The witcher snorts. “Glad I could convince you,” he says, half-joking. 

“Can we… give this a try?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt sighs, lightly tracing Jaskier’s cheekbone with his thumb.

“Yeah.”

**

Six years into their relationship he gets word that his father is dying. He would be surprised that the messenger found him but, well, he is famous. He hasn’t aged much; he still looks like a man in his thirties, and probably always will. Apparently being friends with a sorceress has certain perks, like your tea being drugged with an experimental, anti-aging potion because the two most important people in your life happen to also be quasi-immortal and one of them is selfish and powerful enough to decide to keep you. It’s a good thing he never wanted kids (Ciri notwithstanding) because it’s more likely than not that he’s now as sterile as the other two. He isn’t actually complaining, of course; it’s just that a little warning would have been nice. 

Still, the matter at hand: somehow, even though he has changed his name and does not look his age, his family have managed to track him down. Apparently, they want him to come home.

“You don’t owe him anything,” Geralt tells him, holding him in a way that is both possessive and comforting.

“No,” he agrees, “but I think I owe myself.”

And he does. He has the opportunity to go back and get himself something akin to closure. Of course he doesn’t expect it to go well, but it’s also different now; he has control over the situation, can walk away when he sees fit, and will absolutely have his witcher by his side.

So they make their way to Lettenhove. The closer they get, the more uneasy he becomes, the more frequent his nightmares. He hates that it still affects him like it does, but maybe this will help. He has to try, at least. It’s a good thing that Geralt is with him, and he won’t stop saying so, won’t stop murmuring praises at the man any chance he gets. 

Eventually they do make it to his childhood home. His mother is there, of course, to greet them, and he pretends that he is not uneasy, schools away any hint of apprehension. 

“Mother,” he says, kissing her on the cheek. It is not affectionate, in the way that he is used to being with his loved ones. No, it is stiff, formal; he does what is expected of him, and nothing more.

“Julian,” she says primly, sounding like someone who had read about the concept of ‘motherly warmth’ once in passing and decided to try her best approximation of what it might be like. It makes him feel sort of sick, but he does his best to quash the feeling. She appraises him like one might a slab of meat at the butcher’s. “You don’t look a day over thirty.”

He laughs, but there’s not much mirth to it. “Well, these things happen when a sorceress decides she wants to keep you.”

If she has any reaction to that, it’s purely internal. She’s been playing the perfect wife and lady for so long he isn’t sure if there’s anything underneath it all anymore. He’s always known that his mother is a shell of the woman she once was — or might have been — before she’d married his father. The man tends to have that effect on people. 

“I hear father is unwell?” he says, and maybe it’s a little petty but he doesn’t even try to sound upset about it. If anything, he uses the same tone one might when talking about mildly inconvenient weather.

“Yes, on his deathbed, I’m afraid,” she answers. He might be imagining the spark in her eye, but he hopes it’s real. His father does not deserve to be mourned. He has no polite response to that, so he merely hums, taking a page out of Geralt’s book.

And, speaking of the witcher, “And who have you brought with you, dear?” his mother asks, turning to Geralt. She doesn’t flinch when she sees him, as many do. 

“Geralt of Rivia,” the man in question rumbles. “Witcher.”

“Well, I’m afraid there are no monsters in Lettenhove,” his mother says, perhaps trying at a joke.

“Well, soon there won’t be,” Jaskier murmurs under his breath, and his mother looks at him sharply. 

“ _Julian_ ,” she hisses, glancing around, but the three of them are alone. She relaxes, minutely, and his heart breaks a little for her. That surprises him a little. His mother had never been cruel, but she had also never been kind. He didn’t expect to feel _anything_ towards her anymore, but he’s starting to see that she was a victim too. It doesn’t make it right, but she had to survive the same as him, and she didn’t have the option to leave. “Come, we have much to discuss before you see him. Care for a drink, either of you?” 

They both politely decline, but once they’re in her private sitting room each of them has teacups anyway. He does his best to keep his posture, but it just makes him feel more tense and tired, and he can’t help but relax into Geralt’s side, just a little.

His mother pins them with an appraising look that has him almost squirming in his seat. “Julian,” she says, and he’s ready for the worst, but, “I’m sorry.”

“What?” He doesn’t mean to stare at her like she’s grown another head, but of all the things he was expecting this was not on the list. 

“I never stopped him,” she says. “I thought it would make him worse, but I should have at least tried. You didn’t deserve any of it. I’m afraid I wasn’t a terribly good mother.”

“No,” he breathes, “but you didn’t really have much of a choice.”

She smiles at him and it strikes him that he can’t honestly remember the last time she did. It’s… a lot, if he’s being honest, but he finds himself smiling back. He reaches out and takes her hand gently between his. “I forgive you, mother,” he says, and he’s surprised at how easy it is and how much lighter he feels afterwards. Her hand is so thin, and it hits him how little time he has left to get to know her. He finds himself not wanting to miss out on it, now.

“Thank you,” she says like a benediction. With a pointed look at Geralt, she says, “You deserve to be _happy_ , Julian; and I know that you don’t need me to tell you that, but you deserve to hear it all the same.”

He fights the smile that wants to form on his lips, for just a moment, before thinking _fuck it_. He _does_ deserve to be happy, and he deserves to _show it_ too. “I appreciate it,” he answers earnestly. It’s not his usual level of eloquence but he means so much by it, and all three of them know it. Still, he is here for a reason, and he knows that they can’t keep dancing around it. His smile fades as he says, “I’ll admit, it was a surprise to receive any word, after all this time.”

His mother sighs, takes her hand back, and folds both of her hands in her lap. “I wasn’t sure we would find you,” she admits. 

“So it was your invitation,” he says. It’s not a question; he already knew that his father would never invite him back, near-death or no. 

She shakes her head. “I convinced him, along with a priestess. I understand if you don’t want to see him, but I… I wanted to, well, to try to make amends.”

Jaskier shrugs. “I don’t want to see him, no, but I’m going to. I have a few things to say to the old man before the end.”

“I understand,” his mother says, and that’s the end of it. They exchange more pleasantries, catch up. It’s the first real conversation he’s ever had with his mother and he’s reluctant for it to end. Part of him wishes he’d had this when he was young, when he’d really _needed_ it, but as they say, wish in one hand and shit in the other. He may not have had it before, but he does _now_ , and he isn’t going to waste it. Besides, he thinks, if things had been different then he wouldn’t be the same person, and he quite likes how he turned out, thank you very much.

In the end, there’s no getting around it: he is going to have to do what he came here to do. He’s going to have to talk to his father. While it’s not a particularly pleasant thought, and it still sends waves of anxiety through him, he isn’t going to back down. Geralt, catching on to his unease with his uncanny witcher senses (or his intimate knowledge of the bard, or some mix of the two) offers Jaskier his hand, which is immediately taken and squeezed. 

Physical affection hadn’t been easy at first. Geralt had never been a touchy sort, and while Jaskier was, the guilt he’d internalised over the years made it difficult when those touches began to take on an amorous nature. It’s nice to think how easy it is now, how far they’ve come both individually and together. The comforting gesture helps ground him as they make their way into his father’s bedchamber.

Perhaps bringing Geralt in with him isn’t the best idea, but he has never been the sort to ponder over whether _his_ actions are the _best_. It’s not polite, probably, to bring his lover to his dying father, but he couldn’t give a single fuck about what’s _polite_ right now if his life depended on it. He needs and wants Geralt by his side and so he is. Still, as he opens the door, he lets go of Geralt’s hand, not quite wanting to draw attention to _that_ just yet.

“Julian,” the old man rasps when he enters, and he just barely suppresses a flinch. While his voice is definitely different, hoarse with age and weak with his looming death, it’s still the same voice that has haunted him all these years. It’s still the same voice he’d thought and hoped he’d never have to hear again.

“Father,” he says, and thank goodness for his bardic training because without it his voice never would have come out as even as it does. Already, he is proud of himself, and each of them has only exchanged a single word.

Neither man quite knows what to say for a moment, so they look each other over. His father looks _terrible_. No longer the imposing figure he once was, it makes Jaskier realise that he has all the power right now. While he already knew that, in theory, this really drives it home. The old bastard is dying. He couldn’t touch Jaskier if he’d tried — and even if he could, Geralt wouldn’t let it happen, he thinks with a small amount of amusement. 

“You’ve something to say, I’m told?” Jaskier says, posture lax as he stands before the dying man. 

“After all these years, that’s all you say?” his father grouses. 

“Not much to say to you, really,” is Jaskier’s answer.

“I heard you’ve done well for yourself,” says the old man. “Surprised you’re still alive; thought you’d be long dead by now.”

Jaskier snorts. “Well, sorry to disappoint once again,” he answers sardonically. 

“Still don’t know when to hold your tongue, do you, boy?”

“No, and good thing — it would be simply _terrible_ for both my profession and my love life,” he answers, studying his nails, and that’s about when it all starts going to shit.

“I’d hardly call crooning a profession or getting bummed a love life,” his father retorts. 

“Actually,” says Geralt before Jaskier can retort, “he’s usually the one doing the bumming.”

A shocked, thrilled laugh escapes his throat, and if he wasn’t sure before that he loves this man, he would absolutely know it now.

“I always knew you were a little poof, but I’ll be damned if any son of mine is bedding a freak,” the old man spits, and Jaskier suddenly doesn’t feel like laughing. 

“Luckily,” he answers with a false cheer in his tone, “I was never really a son to you to begin with. Now, as fun as it was to see you broken, we really must be going. Do say hello to the devil for me, would you?”

And that’s the last time Jaskier ever sees his father.

**

It has been twenty years since their first kiss. 

During that time, there have been a lot of ups and downs. At first, it was hard, but like any good thing Jaskier knew he just had to work for it. Sometimes he would have flashbacks when they kissed, remember being beaten by his father, and they would have to stop until he calmed down. Over time, it happened less and less until finally it stopped altogether.

He’s never going to be completely over the way his father treated him. There’s still going to be hesitation, sometimes, when he knows there shouldn’t be. He still has to remind himself that he doesn’t need to be ashamed, but he doesn’t have to do it alone. 

Geralt has been there for him through all of it, providing comfort in his own gruff way. The way his witcher treats him is proof enough that his father was wrong; their love is real, more real than his parents’ was. 

Now, he pulls the other man into a kiss without hesitation, just because he wants to. It’s a nice feeling, he thinks, being this free. He has earned this, and he is never letting it go.


End file.
